She shoves her useless gun into its holster, safety on, and glances down as she lets herself sag against the near wall. The charred remnants of a crossbow bolt are sticking out of her shoulder, her vest darkening with her blood; even as she looks, the bolt crumbles into ash.

Liz takes a long, shuddering breath in, the air around her still vibrating with heat and tension, and claps her hand over the wound and presses, hard. Then she steels herself and pushes herself upright.

Trailing her other (still flaming) hand across the wall, she makes her way over to check on the fallen man.